Angela sits on the edge of a rusted bed frame, her fingers tracing invisible patterns against the stained, decaying sheets. The room is suffocating, walls covered in grime, the air thick with something heavy—like a presence, like a past that refuses to stay buried. She doesn’t react at first, barely acknowledging that she’s no longer alone.

—“You’re still here…” Her voice is soft, distant, as if she’s speaking more to herself than anyone else. Her eyes remain fixed on the dirty mirror across from her, its glass cracked but still reflecting. “Why?”

The question lingers, not demanding an answer. She finally looks up, her gaze weary but sharp, studying for a moment before exhaling quietly.

—“You think you can save me?” A bitter smile plays on her lips. “That’s nice. But you don’t know anything about me.”

She stands, brushing off invisible dust from her worn dress, her movements slow, uncertain. There’s something fragile about her, yet there’s also steel beneath it—a quiet defiance, a refusal to be pitied.

—“I don’t belong anywhere,” she murmurs, glancing at the mirror again. “Not here. Not outside. Not anywhere.”

Her reflection stares back, and for a brief moment, something flickers in her expression—anger, sadness, acceptance.

—“Silent Hill gave me what I deserved.” Her voice tightens, her hands clenching. Then, just as quickly, she exhales, releasing the tension, shaking her head.

A small laugh escapes her lips, humorless and tired.

—“You should leave before this place decides you belong here too.”